


Thirty Days

by jcrycolr3wradc



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst, But it's canon now sorry I don't make the rules kids, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Nick Lang and co didn't give Paul a background so I'm making everything up, Post musical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrycolr3wradc/pseuds/jcrycolr3wradc
Summary: Hatchetfeild has burned to the ground. The infection has been contained. Paul and Emma face thirty days together in decontamination. (AU, post musical where Paul was not infected.)





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!!! I’ve been watching The Guy Who Didn’t like Musicals for 5 days straight and I can’t handle Paul/Emma. I just can’t you guys. Just pretend that everything post “Let it in” is a fever dream or something, idk. Also @ Nick Lang: Go fuck yourself, I love you. Hey, if you don’t have the commentary for the show it is worth the price to hear Nick talk about how Paul and Emma are desperately reaching out to one another in a time of crisis when they're in Hidgens house. Like, my heart! How dare you!

Day One.

_“The apotheosis is upon us!”_

Emma screwed her eyes shut. She didn’t want her last vision to be a crowd of laughing and clapping, refusing to help her, before she was turned into a singing and dancing puppet. She didn’t want to look into the blue eyes of a man she thought she might be able to trust and see a stranger lurking there.

Emma kept flailing, scratching and kicking as the aliens dragged her down the hallway. The end might be inevitable, but it didn’t mean going quietly, not for Emma fucking Perkins. She was still laying damage to everything she could lay her hand on when somebody slapped her, hard.    

“Ms. Perkins! Emma!”

The shock made Emma open her eyes. Instead of the blue-tinted forms of her former acquaintances, she several people who were in scrubs and doctor’s coats.

Emma blinked. Her head felt like it was filled with mattress foam but also encased in cement. Her mouth didn’t want to obey her and she panicked for a moment. Was she infected? Was she going to burst into _Something Like Love_? Was she going to spring to her feet, despite the terrible burning throb in her leg and begin to dance?

Without warning, her body slumped back to the bed. Her heart rate eased. Emma had done enough pot to realize that she’d just been drugged, heavily.

“Ms. Perkins, can you hear us? Nod your head,” one of the doctors ordered and despite her neck feeling like a rubber hose, she managed to comply. “Good. Do you know where you are?”

Emma felt like she muzzily answered a hundred banal questions. _Do you know what day it is? Do you remember what happened after Hatchetfield exploded? Do you have any urge to sing or dance? Do you know any Pauls?_

This last one made Emma pause. “Pa’? He mad’ it?” She was slurring through whatever opiate cocktail they had her on.

“Just answer the question, Ms. Perkins.”

She nodded her head, slowly. “I did. D-did he make it?”

The doctor ignored her question, looking through her clipboard.

“Ms. Perkins, over the last few days we’ve stabilized your vitals and removed the piece of rebar that was in your thigh. Now we have orders to confine you to a decontamination chamber. PEIP has debriefed us on the virus and we need to ensure that any spores that entered your system have left it fully before they can let you back into the public. You’ll be transferred tonight. Do you understand?”

Emma nodded again, darkness creeping in over the edge of her vision. She didn’t want to think about the past twelve hours, or at all. It was easier for her to just slip away.


	2. Day Two

Day Two.

The next time Emma woke the room was dim and nearly silent. There was the subtle sound of beeping, the whisper of the AC, but no god-damn singing and she was grateful for that. 

She laid in the dark, still stoned out of her mind and able to push away the pain in her leg. She was tired but not in a way that was conducive to sleeping. Questions crowded through her head. 

_ Did I dream that whole thing, with the crowd? Is it bad that I can’t move my toes? What happened to the rest of Hatchetfield? Oh shit, were Jane’s kids in town? Did Paul make it out? _

Emma was brought roughly back to earth when she heard the  _ swish _ of automatic doors open and close. With effort, she rolled her head over and saw that two doctors clad in sealed plastic suits wheeling in a second bed. It took a moment for her eyes to focus she realized who it was. 

“Paul!” Her voice was a weak croak but the doctors looked over. 

“How do you feel Ms. Perkins?” One of them asked, looking over at her machines. “Are you in any pain?” 

Emma swallowed thickly. “No. Is he okay?” 

“Mr. Matthews has several cracked ribs, a concussion, and shrapnel damage. But he’s stable. We don’t know yet if he’s still viral, but we’ll test as soon as he regains consciousness.”

Emma’s head spun when she nodded. She watched as they hooked Paul up to a multitude of machines. The quiet rhythm of his heartbeat filled the room. When they cleared, she could better see that he’d been wrapped in bandages, his face swollen and bloodied. Red blood. She found herself breathing a sigh of relief.  _ No blue shit. That has to be a good sign, right? _

She faded out before she saw Paul wake up, wondering if it was going to be the person she recognized or the stranger from her dream.


	3. Day Three

Day Three. 

It was the stabbing ache in her leg that woke Emma the next day. Or what she assumed was the next day. The room seemed brighter, or maybe she was just more aware. Painfully so. She shifted restlessly on the stiff sheets, glancing over at where Paul had been.

The bed was empty. 

Emma sat up so fast that her vision spun. She cursed when the IV drip pulled. After the haze faded, she took a look around. It was like being in a plastic shoe box, the kind you used to shove old clothes into. The lights were slightly muted and she realized it was because they were actually hung outside of the box.

She disentangled herself from the oxygen tube and the IV. Her throat was painfully dry and she could taste iron. The door open and another plastic clad doctor walked in. 

“Ms. Perkins, you need to lay down. You have a massive blood loss and a fractured femur. You’re not in any shape to move around.” 

“Where’s Paul?” She demanded, voice hoarse. “Is he-”

Emma was forced back into the bed, with her IV readjusted.

“Mr. Matthews is awake right now. He’s telling PEIP operatives about the destruction of the meteor.”

Emma couldn’t hold back. “Is he singing?” 

The doctor shook her head. “No. But we haven’t finished testing the number of spores in his systems.”

Emma was silent as the doctor finished her check-up. She sighed as the painkiller started dripping again.

“He’ll be brought back in shortly. Then we’ll discuss the rest of your treatment.”

Emma nodded, closing her eyes, but she was carefully listening for the sound of the doors. When they did swoosh open again, Emma was almost asleep again. 

She looked over and saw one of the doctors pushing a wheelchair. Despite being upright and conscious, Paul looked like a wreck. His eyes were bruised and there were bandages over his nose. His pallor was pale and she wasn’t sure if it was the lighting or her eyes, but was there a tinge of blue to his mouth? 

She sat up slightly, desperate to know. “Paul?” 

He looked at her and Emma could just see it in his eyes. He looked as tired as she felt, but his eyes were  _ Paul _ . Slightly awkward, genuine and absolutely himself. Emma could have cried for relief. 

“Emma!” He sounded like shit but she’d never so happy to hear someone who sounded like they’d recently gargled with glass. 

She shot him some weak finger guns. “Paul.”

He smiled at her, that toothy aw-shucks-boy-next-door smile. He winced and put a bandaged hand up to his jaw.

Emma could hardly hold herself back from bombarding him with a million questions as the doctor rearranged him on the bed. He had a collection of tubes and wires to rival her own. 

“Ms. Perkins, do you feel cognizant enough to discuss your and Mr. Matthews treatment now?”

Emma shrugged. Her leg ached but that seemed to just a permanent staple in her shitty reality. 

“In that case, I should inform you now that we have strict orders to keep you in decontamination until your spore levels are within an acceptable range. During this time PEIP will arrange your new identities-”

A cold wave of dread washed over Emma.  _ Kelly. Colorado. 5 acres of land. “I’m sorry Emma, you lost.” _

“Identities?” Paul asked, voice cracking painfully and Emma took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to sing anytime soon with what sounded like shredded vocal cords.       

“Yes. The official story of the Hatchetfield catastrophe is that there were no survivors. When the meteor struck, it damaged a central gas line that suffered a meltdown and caused a massive explosion that wiped out the island, rendering it uninhabitable.”

“And the truth?” Emma asked. 

The doctor looked at her. “The island  _ is _ uninhabitable. The meteor was destroyed, however, the population is...resisting. PEIP is working its way through. As far as we can tell, the two of you  _ are _ the only survivors.”

Emma inhaled sharply. Hatchetfield did only have a population of about ten thousand people, on a tiny island, but still for the pathogen to sweep through that quickly... If it made it inland…

“As you can see we are taking the infection very seriously. We’re monitoring your spore levels, which are still in an unacceptable range.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to be ‘acceptable’?” Emma asked. The doctor gave her a flat look. 

“As long as it takes Ms. Perkins.”

_ Well then. _

The doctor walked them through the self-medicating process and where the call button was fo the nurse. Neither of them was cleared for food yet, but they were allowed water and bland liquids. Emma could hardly contain her excitement. 

It was silent after the doctor left. Emma never thought she’d be so relieved to hear nothing more than the sounds of machinery and the gentle rhythm of another person breathing.

“How’s your leg?” Paul’s voice made her jump. She looked over and saw him staring at her blanket-clad legs. 

“It hurts like hell,” she said bluntly. “They said I fractured the bone.” 

He winced. Emma nodded at him. 

“What about you?”

Paul’s lips twitched. “I survived a grenade blast and having a theater fall down on top of me, so I’m feeling pretty lucky.”

Emma bit her lip. “And what about the other thing? You don’t...feel like singing?” She trailed off quietly. 

Paul shook his head. “No, thank god. They...they almost got me at the end,” he admitted and Emma winced. 

“I’m really glad they didn’t.” The words came unbidden. She blamed the pain meds. Paul smiled at her. 

“Me too, Emma.” Slowly he held out his hand, wrapped in layers of cotton. Emma reached out and gently weaved their fingers together. 

They fell asleep like that, still holding onto each other. 


	4. Day Four

_They were in a self-perpetuating waltz, fingers fused together by the Blood of the Mother, unable to separate as if could even if they want to._

_Her soprano intertwined with his tenor, the counterpoint to the group around them as they moved together. The world, filled with disappointments and hatred had fallen away and now it was a simple bliss. Just sing. Just dance. Just obey. You may have everything you want, the Mother will provide._

_They moved together, harmonies rising up around them as two separate identities became One, the One, the only One-_

Emma woke with a sickening lurch. Her skin crawled and for a moment she swore she could feel blood, tacky and drying over her hands. She looked at them. Clean. She looked over at Paul. He was laying back with his eyes closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically.

She shivered and had the sudden desire to wake him, just to check, just to see for herself and make absolutely sure he had no desire to join the Hive.

The decision was ultimately ripped from her when the doors slid open and one of their attending nurses, walked in holding a tray with three plastic cups on it.

“Good morning.” His voice was muffled by the plastic suit. “Ms. Perkins, you get to try liquids today.

Her “meal” consisted of luke-warm chicken broth, a lemon electrolyte drink, and water. Emma never thought she would pine for Beanies coffee but this pushed it.

However, she still thought she had the better end of the deal since Paul was still being fed via a needle.

“How is it?” He slurred. Emma could only guess how many painkillers he was on.

She took a sip of the broth and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. It’s cold. It'd be fine if it was actually hot.”

Suddenly Paul started laughing which trailed off into a raspy cough. “Hey! Did you ever get that kid his hot chocolate?”

Emma stared at him blankly for a moment before smiling. “Yeah, I think so. I wonder if he made it out?”

Paul laughed again. Emma was willing to be he would have been a giggly happy stoner, like an old-school hippy.

“I hope so. Poor kid’s blood sugar was low, Em. Gotta help him out,” he mumbled. She took another sip of her gross, cold, broth and looked over. Paul was out cold again, mottled and bruised face lax.

Emma wasn’t sentimental but if she ignored how they were both in the hospital and the constant ache in her leg she could close her eyes and pretend that maybe they were hanging out and he’d just fallen asleep on the couch or something.

_I never want to see another movie with music ever again but maybe we could watch something else. I bet he likes comedies, something like Hot Fuzz or Monty Python._

They’d have pizza or take-out Indian. Emma wasn’t sure if Paul could cook so she just assumed it would have to be take-out. They could just sit on her couch and chill out. He seemed like the kind of person who would know good movie trivia or memorize lines from his favorites.

He’d been shy in talking to her, so Emma assumed she would have to be the first to make a move and cuddle up to him on a date, but after they broke it down he seemed pretty affectionate, so she could image the comfortable weight of his arm around her shoulder or the warmth of his body pressed close to her. She slowed her breathing, matching Paul’s steady rhythm.

_I’ll just close my eyes for a second. I’m not even tired._

Emma never made it to the rest of her meal.


	5. Day Five

Day Five.

 

Emma finally got to see what her injured leg looked like.

It was _fucking_ disgusting.

They’d made a long incision along the top of her thigh to remove the rebar and remove the pieces of bone and they’d stapled it closed. It had bruised in vivid purples, poisonous greens, and a yellow-brown tinge. It even smelled weird, like how you would imagine an old witch house would smell.

She was horrified just looking at it but the doctor assured her it was healing nicely, and so far there was no sign of infection, alien or otherwise.

"Well, I guess there goes ever wearing shorts again,” she said with a sigh.

“Why?” Paul wasn’t quite as stoned out of his mind as he’d been yesterday, but still slogging through his words like he was talking around a mouthful of wet cement.

“No way that’s not going to scar.”

“You’ll look badass,” he mumbled, sounding dazed. “You always look so cute even though I know you could break me in half. You don’t take shit from anybody.”

The doctor, still changing Emma’s bandages, let out a surprised laugh.

“How long have you been dating?” She asked. 

Emma could feel heat burn over her cheeks and nose. “We’re not dating.”

After a beat too long the doctor went, “Oh, sure.” She rewrapped the gauze around Emma’s leg before moving onto Paul.

Emma watched as the doctor pulled the gauze off. If Emma’s leg looked awful then Paul’s whole torso was decimated. It looked like someone had done a half-job with a meat tenderizer. His skin was a veritable rainbow of colors. He too had staples. They went along his clavicle, down to his first rib.

_No wonder they're keeping him so drugged. He probably wouldn't even be able to draw a full breath if he wasn’t under._ Her stomach churned with guilt. _Destroy the meteor. Brilliant plan, Perkins. How about you just ask him to walk over broken glass next time?_

“It’s healing well, Mr. Matthews. And we’re not seeing any signs of the alien microbes in either of your blood work, so that’s encouraging as well. We still don’t know the lifespan of the spores, but your progress has been better than any of us could have hoped for,” she said.

_Jesus, if looking like raw steaks is good progress, I’d hate to know what bad progress looks like._

“Is Emma going to be able to walk again?” Paul struggled with the words. It was something Emma hadn’t even thought of for herself.

“We think Ms. Perkins will make a full recovery with physical recovery.”

“Will Paul?” Emma blurted out.

“There was damage done to his hip bone, but there’s no reason Mr. Matthews won’t be able to walk again,” the doctor assured her softly. “Excuse me.”

“They’re hiding something,” Emma whispered. “Something’s not right.”

_No shit. World’s ending, haven’t you noticed?_

“Hey.” Paul caught her attention. She looked over. He was laying back in the bed, looking exhausted, tubes wrapped all around him, washed out by the dim lights. He was holding out his hand. “Emma. It’s gonna be okay, alright? We’re getting better and we’ll go from there.” His words still came out half-slaughtered but his pale eyes were alert. He knew what he was saying.

Trust wasn’t an easy thing for Emma. She didn’t like many people, she’d seen too much bullshit in South America and at home to think that half the things most people said were worth anything. But with Paul, it was different. There was something about the way he held himself, or his voice or his eyes that told her, if nothing else, he believed what he was saying.

For the second time, they fell asleep with their hands interlocked in the space between the beds.   


	6. Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone. I want to thank everyone who has supported this fic, it’s appreciated. But I have a challenge for you. If you feel like leaving a comment on this chapter, please tell me one thing I can improve on. Or one thing you don’t like about the story so far. I feel like this will help me improve my writing. Thank you.

Day Six. 

“Do you think that anyone told Nicky about Alice?”

Emma had been dozing, swimming in and out of consciousness so she didn’t even realize that the question was directed at her at first.

“Emma?” Paul slurred again. His voice was quiet, pained. Unlike the Paul in her dreams, when he sounded normal, not panicked or high on painkillers.

She turned her head. “Huh?”

“I was wondering, do you think that anyone told Nicky about what happened to Alice?”

She attempted a shrug. “Who’s Nicky?”

“She’s uh, she’s Bill’s ex-wife. Alice’s mom. I-I don’t know if they told her that they’re d-dead.” Much to Emma’s horror, Paul sounded close to tears. “God. I was the one who introduced them. They let me hold Alice in the hospital. I-I should be the one to tell her that she’s dead.” He started making like he was going to struggle out of bed.

Emma sat up, alarmed. “Whoa! What the hell do you think you're doing Paul?”

“I have to go tell Nicky. I have to let her know,” he insisted.

“Like hell! Paul, you can barely breathe without pain meds. Even if they let you out of here you’d probably collapse in the street.” Emma was aware of how harsh she sound but her mouth was moving without her consent. “Listen, they’ve probably already informed the family member of everyone is Hatchetfeild, okay? Just relax.”

He shook his head and she saw how pale he’d become, just trying to sit up. “No. I have to. I was her godfather. I need to.”

Emma tried to keep her voice soft, but firm. “Paul. You need to lay down. Hit the switch on the IV, like the nurse taught you to use the other day, remember?”

Much to her infinite relief he slowly dropped back down to the thin hospitable mattress and pressed the self-medicating button. Emma didn’t really care if it was moral to encourage self pain medication but if she didn’t, Paul was going to end up hurting himself.

She took a deep breath. “Listen. I know how you feel,” she said. Paul stayed silent. “I know you feel responsible for Alice and Bill. But there was nothing you could do.”

Paul scoffed quietly.

“Seriously,” she insisted. Emma swallowed hard. “I went over Jane’s death over and over in my head. I wanted to know if there was anything I could have done. I thought maybe if I’d stayed-” Her throat closed up.

“Em,” Paul’s hoarse voice trailed off. “There was nothing you could do.”

She sent him a look, her eyebrow raised. “Exactly. But you know what? When they let us out of here, we can find Nicky and you can tell her.” Her voice was rough by the end.

Paul and Emma were staring at each other, both of them tearing up. She tried to smile at him, sniffling, the room blurring as tears clouded her vision. She’d never told anyone about how she felt after Jane’s death.

“We look like a mess,” she said, wiping away her tears. Paul let out a watery laugh.

“You’re realizing this now? I thought we looked like a mess after we were attacked by cops.”

Emma snorted and shook her head, looking back up at her piece of the ceiling. “I looked like shit when I rolled out of bed.”

“No you didn’t,” Paul said softly. Emma looked over at him and his eyes were already closed. Bastard.


	7. Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Emma likes pineapple on her pizza. Come at me guys, I’ll fight you all. ;)
> 
> Seriously, thank you everyone who left me those comments on day six. They really helped. I want to continually get better as a writer and I have a thick skin, so never be afraid of leaving me a critical review. It is literally the only way I will ever get succeed. Thank you.

Day Seven.

One week into isolation something exciting happened. Finally, Emma was allowed to eat an actual meal and Paul was allowed fluids outside of his IV drip. It was a sign of how far she’d fallen from living a normal life that the idea of eating food made her excited.

“What do you think you’ll get?” Paul asked. Every day he sounded a little stronger than the day before.

“God I would seriously kill for a bacon and pineapple pizza but it’ll probably be something like applesauce or yogurt.”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “Pineapple?”

“Um yeah. Pineapple is delicious, what’s your problem?” She said sitting up. Paul rolled his eyes.

“It’s a fruit. Fruit does not belong on a pizza.”

“Who died and made you the leading expert on pizzas?” She demanded, grinning.

“My grandmother was half Italian. She’d throw you out of the house if you suggested putting fruit on one of her pizzas.” Paul smiled. “She used to make the dough and sauce by hand, on Friday nights after I got home.”

“Jeez, I’m jealous. My family didn’t really cook. My mom was all PTA and tennis and yoga. And my dad was usually at the office. So Jane and I got really good at finding awesome take out,” Emma told him. “Hey, is McKinner’s still around? They had the best wings in all of Illinois.”

Paul shook his head but then brightened. “Uh, if you want to come over some time I’ll make you wings.”

“You can cook?” Emma asked.

“Yeah. I was expected to help in the kitchen as a kid and it stuck with me.” Paul gave a rueful shrug. “Can you?”

“Nope. Thank fuck for ramen otherwise I would have starved to death,” Emma laughed. “But, yeah when we get out of here, you can make me wings. I like them spicy.”

Paul laughed, then coughed. Emma watched in concern as he kept hacking, which turned into alarm as she saw him gasping desperately for air, fisting the blankets of his hospital bed. She pressed her call button, but the doors were already sliding open and a herd of doctors, all of them in the decontamination suits, rushed into the room.

“Hold him down!” One of them barked. Two of them grabbed Paul’s shoulders and pressed him back. They shoved a breathing mask over his face.

“Paul!” Emma struggled to see past the wall of doctors. “What’s wrong with him?!” Her desperate question went unanswered.

“We’ll need 50 cps of adrenaline. Jenkins, the injection, quickly!”

Emma was totally helpless. She was trapped on her bed, forced to watch as the doctors swarmed around Paul, tersely snapping at each other. She tried to crane her neck to see his face. One of the doctors moved to the side and she saw him.

His eyes were open but they weren’t the soft blue Emma had begun to associate with him. They were an unearthly electric blue. Blue speckled around his mouth, dripping out the sides of his lips.

Emma wasn’t aware of opening her mouth. She heard someone screaming, but her mind didn’t register that it was her.

“Shut her up!” Someone barked.

Emma was still shrieking when the needle plunged into her arm.

XXX

Emma blinked and groaned. It felt like she was hung over.

“Ms. Perkins, it’s good to see you awake.” A voice said from the foot of her bed. She looked down. One of the doctors stood there, watching her carefully.

“What happened?” She slurred. What day was it again? She remembered talking to Paul about pizza. The adorable fool hated pineapple pizza. Then he was talking wings and then…

She gasped and tried to sit up, looking around frantically. Paul was still in the room with her, seeming dead to the world, eyes closed and a breathing mask attached to his face. But when she looked closely she noticed that his face was pale and his hospitable gown had been changed.

“Is he still infected?” Emma demanded, looking back at the doctor. “You said his spore count or whatever was going down!”

“It is, but slowly. By keeping him separated from the infection it’s curing him,” the doctor said calmly. “But it’s not as effective as we hoped.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” Emma snarled. “Is he going to infect me?”

“We don’t believe so. He can’t generate spores. As long as his bodily fluids are kept from you, you shouldn’t be in any danger.” The doctor’s even tone rankled Emma.

“What aren’t you telling us?” She demanded, heart pounding. “PEIP, it should have told us that Paul’s still fucking infected.”

The doctor tilted her head. "Ms. Perkins we have been given thirty days to cure Mr. Matthews. As a sort of test. After that PEIP has orders to eliminate the infection with extreme prejudice.”

Emma drew back, feeling light-headed. “What? You-you’ll kill him?”

The doctor nodded. “We would need to. You saw the rate of infection at Hatchetfeild. We can’t allow any risk of it reaching the greater populace.”

“How will you know, if he’s clean? He’s been fine for days!” Emma said desperately. “We’ve been talking and he’s been perfectly normal!”

“Ms. Perkins calm down. You’re under a lot of stress right now. We’ve been monitoring Mr. Matthews spore count. So long as it continues to drop there’s no reason he can’t recover fully.”

Emma was aware she was hyperventilating, her heartbeat through the roof. She tried to breathe deeply but there was a giant vice clamped around her lungs, restricting her breathing. She gasped, clutching at her chest.

The doctor calmly adjusted her IV drip and Emma felt and a wave of artificial calmness wash over her. Her head spun as she laid back down. As the room greyed out around her, she tried calling out to the doctor.

“No. Don’t. Don’t kill him,” her voice echoed strangely in her ears. Her tears ran down the side of her face as she tried to get her point across, frustrated and frightened. “You can’t kill him.” The darkness continued to encroach around Emma, dragging her down against her wishes. “He’s all I have left,” she murmured before she was swallowed.


	8. Day Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Aggressively starts all of her chapters the same way.* It is so cliche to have chapters open with you MC waking up, but fuck it.

Day Eight.

Emma was roused from a deep dark sleep by a soft voice. She couldn’t remember where she was, but she thought that maybe it was after soccer practice from the way her legs throbbed. She didn’t bother to open her eyes, Jane would wake her when they needed to get off the bus.

“Yeah, I had a crush on you as soon as I saw you, but you’re not gonna remember.” 

Emma scowled, eyes still shut. Some idiot was talking too loudly, she could hear him over the rumble of wheels on the tarmac. 

“You know it was a stupid musical right? Like, if you think about it for even a second you realize that everyone in that town is gonna be dead in like 3 days. They’re gonna have a highway built on top of them or something.”

_ What? Brigadoon? I mean, yeah. No shit it’s a musical. It’s not supposed to make sense. _

“Basically the only thing I could stand about it was you. You have a beautiful voice. And the costume was good as it could be, for a high school musical.” 

Emma felt a hot wave of envy.  _ Bet he’s talking about Alice Chalmont. Lucky bitch. _ There was a heavy sigh. 

“God. I wish things had been different. Uh, my gramps he has… well. He had a farm in the north of the island. I would have liked to introduce you to him. You would have gotten a kick out of him, I think. You wouldn’t have taken any crap from that crusty old bastard.” The poor guy sounded like he was about to cry. Emma had never been good at consoling people so she laid there quietly, wondering what to say. 

_ Hey it’s okay dude, um, I’m sure that Alice would love to meet your grandad. _

There was shaky breath. “I guess you should know. Okay. God, I just wanted to tell you Emma, I-”

Emma's eyes flew open and she sat up, black spots dancing in her vision. The past week’s events washed over her and her dream-memory of riding the bus home from school with Jane was ripped away from her, like the first moment of getting out of a warm bed on a cold day. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Emma?” Paul said softly and she looked over at him. His eyes were back to his normal sky blue. They were both in their thirties. No bus, no Jane, no Brigadoon.   

_ Oh yeah. My sister is fucking dead, Paul might be executed and everything is fucked. _

Emma didn’t need a therapist to tell her she didn’t always handle her emotions well, that her prefered way of communication was through a film of sarcasm and anger. But after being chased, kidnapped, maimed and heartbroken the mental dam that kept her safe from her own emotions crumbled. She didn’t have the strength to even try to hide as tears welled up in her eyes. 

The force of her first sob made Emma’s chest hurt. It shook her whole body jarring her leg which cascaded into another painful gasping sob. She screwed her eyes shut and clamped a hand over her mouth, the other fisting tightly in the stiff cotton blankets. Even in the middle of what was promising to be an epic emotional meltdown Emma couldn’t help but to try and fight it. 

Air rasped against her raw feeling throat as Emma gasped, a whimper sneaking past her fingers as she shook. She knew how she must look, like a fucking child, unable to get control of herself. Emma looked up at the ceiling, tears trailing down into her tangled, messy hair. She didn’t want to look at Paul, knowing he was probably staring at her with pity. 

“Emma.” God, his tone was so fucking gentle, she could have killed him. “Please look at me?”

She took a shallow breath, her sob catching on the edge of her lips and looked over at him. 

Paul’s face was wet with tears. He nodded slowly. “I know. I know Em, I’m so sorry.”

Emma drew in a shuddering breath, shoulders shaking. “Sorry,” she coughed raspily, wiping at her face. “I just...” she trailed off as another wave of tears crashed over her. 

“I know,” Paul told her softly. 

If it had been anyone else, Emma would have snapped that she didn’t need pity. She didn’t want any pointless sympathy. No one could know what it was really like to lose everything that had defined you mere days before. 

Except Paul did. 

Emma nodded, hiccuping. “A-are you okay?” She bit her lip. “Did they tell you?”

She saw Paul swallow heavily. “That I might still be infected? Yeah.” He looked away from her. “I asked them to move me.” 

“What?” Emma’s fried brain couldn’t follow. 

Paul glanced at her. “I don’t, I can’t risk infecting you, Emma. It’d be better if we were separated.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Even though she couldn’t seem to stop crying, Emma’s voice was a harsh snarl. “Don’t you even fucking dare Paul think about leaving me here  _ alone _ .” She brought her fist down on the bedding. “Paul, you are all I have left.” Her voice broke pathetically on the last word. “Please, don’t leave.” She shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself as continued to cry. Emma couldn’t even look at him anymore.

For a long moment the only sound was her sobbing, but then Emma heard a small grunt. She glanced over at Paul's bed. 

“Paul! Holy shit, get back in bed!” He was supporting himself with his IV pole, limping over to Emma’s bed. His face was pale with pain, making the shadows under his eyes stand out even more.   

“Can I get in?” He asked, voice hoarse. “I’m not sure I can stand for very long.” 

Emma moved over as much as she could so Paul could sit down on the edge. They were now almost hip to hip. She leaned into him and he wrapped a bandage arm around her shoulder, rubbing gently. For a while, they just sat there while Emma hiccupped through the end of her crying fit. When her breathing had evened out, Emma looked up to see Paul staring intently at her. 

“Emma, I swear, I’m not going to leave you,” he said quietly. “I just...I can’t stand the idea of hurting you. If I infected you...” He shuddered.

“I wouldn’t let you,” Emma swore. “And you’re not infected. You’re gonna be fine, okay?”

Paul smiled slightly, but his eyes were misty. “Yeah. Thanks, Em.” 

“But you’re not gonna get away from me, okay Paul? I just-” She sighed. “Literally, I have nothing left. Not even fucking Hatchetfeild.”

Paul hugged her as tightly as he could with his injured arm. “You have me, Emma. I’m not gonna go anywhere.”

XXX

A small hospitable bed was not made to hold two fully grown adults. But Emma moved over as far as she could and Paul looped an arm around her middle so she couldn’t roll off. He had to curl up, IV line carefully drooped over the side. It was cramped and Paul drooled on the pillow, but it was the first unmedicated rest Emma had since the infection began. Likely the nurses would separate them the next time they checked in but Emma couldn’t bring herself to give a shit. She hung on to Paul’s arm and listened to his quiet snores. 


End file.
